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UKArchive ID: 35009For Brân 14th July 2012 by prospero
Originally published on June 15, 2015 in Poetry    

This was written after my grandson’s birth.



Is this completion,
This long-looked-for birth?
Holding my grandchild in my arms
I feel overwhelmed,
Linked again to that long line
Of humanity marching out of Africa
Into some Brave New World.
Like every baby born since humankind
First walked on two legs,
He is beautiful.
Dark eyes swimming
In knowledge of the World,
Small and soft and perfect,
He lies peacefully in my arms.
Brân, Brin, Bryn, a small Welsh Hill
In the wide heights of a busy Earth,
Too small to be yet much noticed
But great enough to be counted.
Hills can be like acorns,
As you approach them they grow.
We will plant this little acorn of ours
In fertile soil,
Tend him with loving care
Watch over him
And wait for him
To bloom.

© prospero (corin on OLD UKA)
UKArchive ID: 35009
Archived comments for For Brân 14th July 2012
gwirionedd on 15-06-2015
For Brân 14th July 2012
That's beautiful, David. Good to see there is Celtic running through your family veins.

Is his name related to the name Brian perchance?

Do hills and acorns grow any more than anything else when you approach them?



Author's Reply:
Thankyou Archie, I was referring to some lines in ‘The Prelude’ by Wordsworth:-=


One summer evening (led by her) I found
A little Boat tied to a Willow-tree
Within a rocky cave, its usual home.
Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in
Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth
And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice
Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on,
Leaving behind her still, on either side,
Small circles glittering idly in the moon,
Until they melted all into one track
Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,
(Proud of his skill) to reach a chosen point
With an unswerving line, I fixed my view
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,
The horizon's utmost boundary; far above
Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
She was an elfin Pinnace; lustily
I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat
Went heaving through the Water like a swan;
When, from behind that craggy Steep till then
The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge,
As if with voluntary power instinct,
Upreared its head.—I struck and struck again,
And growing still in stature the grim Shape
Towered up between me and the stars, and still,
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own
And measured motion like a living Thing,
Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,
And through the silent water stole my way
Back to the Covert of the Willow-tree;
There in her mooring-place I left my Bark,—
And through the meadows homeward went, in grave
And serious mood; but after I had seen
That spectacle, for many days, my brain
Worked with a dim and undetermined sense
Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts
There hung a darkness, call it solitude
Or blank desertion. No familiar Shapes
Remained, no pleasant images of trees,
Of sea or Sky, no colours of green fields;
But huge and mighty Forms, that do not live
Like living men, moved slowly through the mind
By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.

Looks like I somewhat misremembered this passage as the hill that grew was the big one that appeared behind the smaller ridge as Wordsworth rowed away. but the principle is right as the smaller ridge rises to obscure the large one as he rows back to the shore:-)

Maethforsbye

Dave

Mikeverdi on 15-06-2015
For Brân 14th July 2012
Love this Dave, grandchildren are a true blessing.
Mike

Author's Reply:
Thankyou Mike - this one is just great but I guess that is what all grandparents think:-)

Dave

stormwolf on 30-06-2015
For Brân 14th July 2012
What a tender poem expressing so much love. I hope he treasures it one day when he is old enough to understand the man who wrote it and the bravery it took to keep going.
Alison xx

Author's Reply: